


A Collection of Subtleties

by vocativecomma



Category: Original Fiction - Fandom
Genre: Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Fiction, Royalty, slavefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:30:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vocativecomma/pseuds/vocativecomma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know all those slavefics where the characters are equals in private, but slave and master in public?  Whenever I read those fics, my first response is always, "WTF! That's hot, but I could never do that. Waaaaay too much compartmentalizing, which I suck at." I think Julian and Michael suck at it, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Collection of Subtleties

By the time the meeting with the High Council had ended, it was already past ten o’clock.

Prince Julian DeMarc was in a daze. Evidently, the shocking finality of what he had done had not quite registered. He bid his farewells to his father, his brother, and the other members of the High Council. Desmund McCracken, the eldest, and his father’s most trusted advisor, did not fix him with his customary disdainful glare. Instead, he clapped Julian on the shoulder, like a mother cat cuffing her whelp. “I am glad your father and his men finally knocked some sense into you, boy,” he said. A drop of spittle landed on Julian’s shirt.

Julian’s brother, Andreas, was gloating. As always, the king, Julian’s father, showed the utmost restraint, but for a second, the corners of his mouth tilted upwards. In stark contrast, the faces of council members Carolinian and Asa were expressionless masks. Betrayal. Disappointment. Anger. Julian would have preferred any of these to that blank indifference. But when he looked towards Jessop, the only mage and the staunchest of the three abolitionists among them, he found all the hurt and betrayal he could ever want, a foreshadowing of what awaited him in his chambers.

The hallway that led to his suite of rooms had never seemed so long. He quickened his pace, hoping against hope that Michael had not yet been informed of the results of the vote. But the palace’s gossip network was a well-oiled machine, so the chances of that were slim.  
He practically pushed past Brickny, the guard stationed outside his door. The guard’s once ruddy cheeks were now sallow, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved for several days. His wife’s condition must have worsened. On any other night, Julian would have stopped to chat with the guard, and offer what little comfort he could, but tonight, he only gave Brickny a curt nod and unlocked his door with an ornate silver key.

Michael did not rise at his master’s entrance. Instead, he continued to sit, ram-rod straight in the only uncomfortable chair in the room. His demeanor was about as un-slave like as it was possible to be, and the tight set of his jaw gave Julian his answer. Michael already knew.

“How could you?” Michael’s words were quiet, but they rang out like small explosions. Julian felt them reverberate through his chest. “You were the deciding vote. If it weren’t for you, tens of thousands of people would be free tonight.”

For a moment, Julian just stood there, frozen in the doorway. Then he slowly approached Michael. He sank to his knees on the rag rug his father so despised, which had given him the nickname “the peasant prince.” He took his slave’s icy hand in his. “I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered.

Michael recoiled, yanking his hand away. “Save me the soliloquy, Julian. I desire neither your touch nor your apology.”

“Yes, of course,” Julian said. Hastily, he got to his feet. He flung his waistcoat on the back of the couch facing Michael’s chair, and then sank down onto it, burying himself amongst the cushions.

“Shall I take your jacket, your Majesty?” Michael said, in a perfect parody of deference. Michael had a temper, but he had never sounded so acerbic and so vacant at the same time.

“I know you are angry,” Julian said. “But will you at least let me explain?”

“Your explanations are of no use to me,” Michael said flatly.

“Well, I would have been no use to you if I were exiled, or dead!” Julian shouted. “You know as well as I do that my brother and father are like bloodhounds. They look for any excuse they can to have me assassinated, or shipped off. This is a backward country we live in. Slavery is abominable, but there are plenty of other smaller abominations waiting behind it. Pregnant women sent to work in the fields. Gangs of children living in the sewers and on the streets. At least if I were still in power, I could rectify a few wrongs, and put some initiatives in motion that will begin to convince this kingdom that the pillars on which its economy rests are rotten to the core.”

“That’s all very well, but what about us? Were all your promises of freedom meaningless?”

Julian massaged the place on his left temple where a migraine was beginning to take root. “No, they weren’t at all meaningless. Lying next to you last night, I knew that if I voted against emancipation, I might lose you. But a prince must put his love for his people above any other form of love. I’ve warned you that loving me could be dangerous and painful and could end badly.  
While we are alone in this room, we have agreed that you are not my slave. I suppose I was naïve to think that would ever be enough for you.”

Something inside Michael shifted. His jaw unclenched, and his expression was that of a man who had borne defeat one too many times. “You were not naïve,” he said. “You have been the only person in my life, let alone the only master, who has treated me like a man, and not an object, or a toy that can be switched off when not in use. I was grateful, and I think that gratitude has sprouted wings and grown into something not unlike fondness. I, too, wish that our agreement could be enough.”

Julian ran his fingers through his curly black hair, a comfort that Michael usually provided. “I was lying to myself,” he said. ”Maybe I knew from the very moment I discovered you writing poetry when you were supposed to be washing my sheets. The few morsels I give you in this room will never sustain a mind of your caliber. But please, I am asking you, not as your master, but as your friend, have I done anything when we are alone together to make you believe that I regard you as anything less than an equal? I thought I did everything in my power to ensure that there were no traces of the roles we have been assigned. Even if you decide that you are done with me after tonight, I would like to know how I have failed you.”

They were interrupted by a sharp knock. It was Cunnings with the dinner tray.

“You may enter,” Julian said. The authority in his own voice grounded him.

Cunnings opened the door. He set the tray on the low table and began uncovering platters. As always, there was enough food for four hungry men: pumpkin and apple soup, roasted duckling with plump blackberries, tiny new potatoes in their skins, pork chops and mushroom dumplings and carrots in the shape of flowers, and a raspberry tart for dessert. The bread was coarse and brown, rather than the crusty baguettes favored by the nobility.

Michael busied himself around the room, straightening books on the bookshelf, hanging Julian’s waistcoat in the closet. Cunnings never questioned Julian’s request for two place settings at dinner— no doubt assuming this was yet one more peculiarity of the peasant prince—but Julian and Michael had no wish to give him additional fodder for the servant’s’ hall.

“Will that be all, sir?” Cunnings simpered.

“Yes, that will be all,” Julian said.

“Good evening, sir.” Cunnings bowed, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Shall we eat?” Julian asked. “ I’m not particularly hungry; I don’t suppose you are, either?”

Michael shook his head. “I’m not, but I think a continuation of our conversation calls for a glass of wine.”

They seated themselves on the piles of pillows haphazardly stacked at either side of the table. When Julian had first moved into these rooms, and had the table and pillows brought in, his father had taken one look and had given Julian a half-hour long lecture on how it was time to put aside his dead mother’s barbarian ways. But Julian was stubborn, and his father soon realized that his son’s taste in décor was the least of his worries.

Cunnings had opened the blinds, and Michael’s hair glowed a honeyed gold in the moonlight. Julian poured them each a glass of wine. It happened to be Sancerre, Michaels favorite.

Michael took a small sip and then screwed up his face as if the liquid were bitter, rather than candy-sweet. “Before we were interrupted, you asked me a question. I very much doubt you will like the answer. You have had some time to think. Have you reconsidered?”

Julian held his mug of soup in both hands, like a child. It was made with heavy cream and spices, and he was sure that it would make his already churning stomach churn even faster, but it was something warm to hold onto. “No, I have not reconsidered. Speak, and I will listen.”

Michael speared a couple of potatoes and put them on his plate, though he made no move to eat them. “I can see how much you tried to honor our agreement,” he said. “What I am speaking of is not one thing in particular but rather a collection of subtleties. I think many of these behaviors are deeply ingrained. You grew up in a slave-owning society. You can’t help that.”

Julian’s apprehension was causing his patience to become thin. “Stop trying to spare my feelings!” he said. “These subtle, deeply ingrained behaviors of mine that seem to have wounded you so badly. What are they? Tell me.”

“That first night,” Julian began. “When you saw me with that stolen journal and, instead of punishing me, you asked what I was writing. and then I told you, and you promised you wouldn’t treat me like a slave. You said that you would only make requests, and never give orders, and that I was entitled to make requests of you. . But sometimes, you do give orders, Julian. Or at least you speak in a tone that holds a hint of command. You spoke that way just a second ago, in fact. Just last week it was, ‘Michael, come over here and read me that letter, won’t you? Michael, bring me a glass of wine. Michael, I’d like a massage.’ If I were really and truly your lover, I’d gladly do all these things for you, and I wouldn’t get all wound up by something so silly as a bit of bossiness in your tone every so often.”

Michael pointed to the desk in the corner of the room. “But there’s a piece of paper over there that says you own me, and so there’s always that creeping misgiving that I’m being addressed by a master.”

Julian blanched. “If my tone was so upsetting, why didn’t you tell me?”

Michael served himself a piece of duck. Apparently, he, too, needed something to do with his hands. “I did try to tell you. All those times we stayed up late, discussing Plato and Socrates and Hegel. I came so close to asking you for my freedom outright. And I did, once, last year on the summer solstice. Do you remember?”

“I remember,” Julian said. “We were both a little drunk, as I recall.”

“ Yes. And I asked you to free me, for real, on paper, outside of these walls, and you just gave me one of those shuttered looks of yours and said we’d talk about it in the morning.”

“And we never did,” Julian said, as if finishing Michael’s thought. “And you never addressed the matter directly again. You never pushed me. Why was that? Were you so afraid to…”

“Yes, I was afraid,” Michael said, as if he were stating a fact, rather than a feeling. “There are no parameters for a relationship like ours, for a slave who isn’t really a slave. I could have confronted you, but you have to understand that ever since I could talk, I’ve been told to remember my place. I knew if I heard those words come out of your mouth, I would be absolutely certain that I couldn’t continue to survive as a slave. All hope would be lost.”

Julian clumsily put his mug of soup back on the saucer. He clasped his hands in his lap to still their shaking. “And you are not afraid of me now?”

“I am not. The decision you made at the meeting tonight has put us at an impasse. I don’t know what will happen, only that we can’t continue as we are.”

Julian offered Michael a wry smile, which he did not return. “I love when you speak the truth, even when it’s painful to hear. And, not that it would be of any consolation to you, but fear also kept me silent on the topic of your freedom. Last summer, my father was already becoming suspicious about how softly I treated you. And it’s only getting worse. God, I can’t stand the way he looks at you, like he wants you for himself. At least if you are my personal slave, you can remain under my protection.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “You do realize how absurd that excuse is.” He stood, briefly, just to illustrate his point. At six-foot four, he towered over Julian, even when both men were standing.

Julian let out a rueful little laugh. “I really can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

“I don’t suppose you can,” Michael replied. “And there is more. Shall I keep going, or have you had enough of my bravely-spoken truths?”

“No,” Julian said, reaching for his wine. “Please. Continue.”  
“All right,” Michael said. “Sometimes, especially lately, when you come back from a long day of meetings and negotiations, I can see how worn out you are, how the weight of your responsibilities causes your shoulders to sag. Even your jacket is limp.”

Julian couldn’t help cutting in. “I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied lately. I can try to—“

“It’s not about that,” Michael said, exasperated. “Just let me finish. When I see you so exhausted and sad and … vulnerable, I want to go to you, to ask you to talk to me. I know I am merely self-educated, and my intellect pales when compared to yours,   but you’ve said it yourself; I have a natural understanding of politics and military tactics. I want to help. But more than that, I want to just listen. I want to lie beside you, and hold you, but you rarely let me. You’ve even snapped at me a couple of times, when I’ve been too persistent. I guess that sort of persistence is unbecoming of a slave.”

For some reason, this last accusation was the hardest for Julian to take. He felt the tell-tale sting of tears. He stared straight ahead, focusing on the red bead of sauce that was perched on Michael’s upper lip. Just a day ago, he would have wiped it away without a thought. “You won’t believe me when I tell you this,” he said hoarsely, “But despite how pampered you must think me to be, I am… unaccustomed to accepting comfort. So, however guarded I appear, know that I always save the best parts of myself for you.”

Michael handed Julian a napkin. “We are stopping this now,” he said. “If we must, we will resume where we left off tomorrow morning.”

Julian furiously dabbed at his eyes and somehow managed to get himself back under control. “Yes, I agree,” he said. “But if you will humor me, there is something I wish to give you.”

He walked across the room to his desk and unlocked the bottom drawer. “Remember the first night we had dinner together, and you were so peeved because I invited you to dine at the table with me, as equals, but I happened to set up the pillows in such a way that I was sitting slightly higher than you were? You wouldn’t let it go, even when I reassured you over and over that it was completely unintentional.”

Michael nodded. “I remember that,” he said sheepishly. “I was being unnecessarily pig-headed about something so trivial. But why do you bring that up now?”

“It wasn’t trivial to me,” Julian said. He withdrew an odd-shaped object from the drawer, wrapped in cloth. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment to show you this. Maybe I’m being a terrible fool giving it to you tonight, and if it was insensitive of me, you can… destroy it or have it melted down, whatever you please. But perhaps it will say, more eloquently than I can, that I was always listening to you, even if I didn’t allow you to return the favor.”

 

Julian sat back down and handed the bundle to Michael. For a terrifying moment, he worried that Michael would refuse to open it, but he eventually unwound the cloth to reveal a small bronze sculpture. Two men, their features tiny, but recognizably belonging to Michael and Julian, sat side by side on a throne-like bench. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders, and the look they shared was that of an infatuation that had mellowed into contentment.

“It’s beautiful,” Michael said, hypnotized by the likeness of himself. “Who made this?”

“I did,” Julian said simply. “I used to do a lot of sculpting and woodworking as a boy. My mother was an artist, did I tell you?”

 

Michael got shakily to his feet. He stood behind Julian’s chair, and for a minute, the fingers of his left hand rested on Julian’s clavicle. “This is an extraordinary gift,” he said. “And it has solved the mystery of where you’ve been vanishing off to so early in the mornings. But I think you and I both know that I can only accept this as a free man. For two years, I have been your slave and your lover. But I can’t be both, anymore. Tonight, you must sleep; I have been unduly harsh with you, and have given you a lot to think about. Once, you gave me a choice. Tomorrow--or as soon as you are able—it is you who must choose. You must decide who I will be to you.”

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Julian asked in a choked voice.

Michael traced the lion’s head that was carved into the arm of the bench. “No. That would be very unwise.”

“I understand,” Julian said, “But please, answer this one question. That first night, when I presented my agreement to you, and offered the alternative of leaving my presence entirely, why did you choose to stay, if you knew this arrangement would cause you so much anguish?”

“I didn’t realize,” Michael said softly. “My love for you snuck up on me so quickly that I had no time to prepare for its ambush.”

He gave Julian one final, long, impenetrable look, and then left the room .

Julian entered the adjoining bedchamber. He took off his shoes, but did not bother to undress. For an hour, he lay on top of the coverlet, his mind whirling with the faces of all the people who hated him, who kept him as shackled as Michael was. He could hear his father’s tirades, feel the teeth of McCracken’s blade against his neck. With all of his might, he tried to shove the images away. In the morning, he would cease to be a coward. Michael was right: there were no parameters for the space he and Julian occupied; the history books contained no stories to guide a prince who wished to carry out a secret romance with the man who was once his slave. But he couldn’t picture his life without Michael in it.

“We will have to write our own story,” Julian thought. “We must be guides for each other.”

He closed his eyes, drifting towards a place where fear could no longer reach him.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see, backstory is not my specialty; if you want to write some for these two, please feel free. 
> 
> There are nods in this fic to The SardonyxNet and Transformation, two of my favorite books. 
> 
> And, if someone makes some fanart of the sculpture Julian gives Michael, I will squee like a crazy person.   
>  If you want to follow me on Tumblr, you can find me at vocativecomma.tumblr.com.


End file.
